


War/Crime

by Della19



Series: Stop All The Clocks [9]
Category: Avengers Movie Universe, Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternative Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mortals call her War, and he Lies, and believe the two shall never meet; that the Lady Sif shall stay forever virtuous and the Prince Loki forever criminal. They forget of course that all wars are crimes, all battles are lies. Sif and Loki, the past and the future, and what it means to be immortal and yet to give your heart to a human. These are the lives of the Lady Sif; part nine in my Stop All the Clocks series.  Sif/Loki, Sif/Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War/Crime

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, but if anyone has a spare Tom Hiddleson lying around, I wouldn’t say no.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Then Sif came forward and poured mead for Loki in a crystal cup, and said:

53\. "Hail too thee, Loki, | and take thou here  
The crystal cup of old mead;  
For me at least, | alone of the gods,  
Blameless thou knowest to be."

He took the horn, and drank therefrom:

54\. "Alone thou wert | if truly thou wouldst  
All men so shyly shun;  
But one do I know | full well, methinks,  
Who had thee from Hlorrithi's arms,--  
(Loki the crafty in lies.)"

-Sif and Loki, regarding their affair- _The Poetic Edda_ , by Henry Adams Bellows

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

 _“To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.”-_ G. K. Chesterton

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

In the legends that mortals tell, the stories of Loki and Sif are all the same. The virtuous Sif-goddess of war, wife and lover of Thor-and the trickster Loki-criminal and cruel, sheering her hair and insinuating against her virtue.

Of her love for him, the wicked one.

But these are tales told by mortals and they, as so much is, are only half-truths.

The story of Loki and Sif is much more complex.

And much still unwritten.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

This too, is something mortals believe.

That the end of a life must mean death.

Sif, however, knows better.

Her heart still beats, yet she has lived several lives.

This is the nature of immortality, and these are but some of them.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

It is sunny on the day that Sif first meets the princes of Asgard.

She remembers little else about that day, but she remembers the sun.  Remembers that it traced, oddly appealing off the sharp angles of the younger, and that it made the hair of the oldest shine nearly as golden as her own locks.

Remembers that she had challenged the golden prince to a battle and beaten him in sparring soundly, while his little brother watched like a shadow, eyes dark and intense, never leaving her form.

Remembers that it was then, standing victorious over the crown prince of Asgard, that Sif’s campaign to become a warrior began. 

And, although Thor perhaps remembers that he was her greatest ally in this process, Sif has always known that the success of her campaign owed thanks to _both_ princes.  For it might have been Thor who taught her form and sparred with her when others would not, but it was Loki who convinced the Queen to support her cause, and it was Loki who, like a shadow, listened to her grievances, her fears and her doubts about her worthiness as a warrior, and always had a trick to make her smile and feel better.

Grievances like the fact that Sif is young, golden-haired and beautiful, and her mother-and many others-believe that her warrior aspirations are only a fancy that will pass, and that soon Sif will become a proper lady, and marry a proper man.

Her hair marks her as feminine, marks her as _weak_ , and so Sif _hates_ her locks.

And then, one night, Sif goes to sleep with the golden hair of a maiden and awakens with the raven hair of a warrior.

Her mother cries tears of sorrow, but Sif only beams in joy, before she kisses the cheek of the second prince of Asgard in thanks, and he blushes in return, so adorably flustered.

It makes her stomach flutter.

And so, it comes to pass that the golden haired girl-child she was dies to make room for the raven haired young warrior woman she is now.

This is the end of her first life.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

And time, as it as wont to do, passes.

Sif passes it with Loki.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

The house of Odin has always had secrets.

Yet, still there are certainties. 

No matter what the mortals say, Sif is not Thor’s wife.

Sif will _never_ be Thor’s wife.

The affair of the Lady Sif and the Prince Loki is a secret thing, resigned to shadowed corners and closed doors.  Sif has fought to hard and too long to once again be seen as nothing more than a female, looking to court a prince, and Loki has always been a private creature, loving nothing more than the things he can keep his own through his secrets and his spells.

And yet, although perhaps it is not ideal, they are still happy.  There are soft kisses in corners and heated trysts in hidden, private rooms-there are moments of quiet solitude in libraries, where Loki learns and Sif does as well, unable to resist the brightness that comes to his face when he can teach her something-and moments of heat and teasing when they spar alone, letting their bodies brush far closer than combat demands.

And yet, for all their happiness, there is a grey-spot, and its name is Thor.

Thor bothers Sif little-he is her friend and her Prince- nearly her brother-and she knows that so long as she was happy he would be happy for her-but he is a massive concern of Loki’s, and that worries her greatly.  Sif loves her city and her King, but there are expectations here that work against people like them-those who do not fit the golden, male Adonis mold that Thor sprung from.  It’s always been something in the past that united them, the two outsiders who never quite fit taking solace in each other, but now, with the fast approaching reality of Thor’s announcement as Crown Prince, and the whispers of the court of her name as the ideal future Queen, it only pushes them farther apart.

There is a distance in him now-a biting desperation in his kisses and his hands on her body-as if he is measuring time using a clock she cannot see and judges their remaining time together limited.  And more than that, there is a darkness that has fallen over him, slowly extinguishing that spark so bright within him that she loves.

Loki may be the master of the shadows, but the shadows created by Thor’s golden light are beginning to choke him, and Sif fears the day when it finally becomes too much.

And then comes Jottenheim, and Thor’s banishment, and Sif’s no longer has cause to fear, because her fears are now reality.

Loki sits on the throne, and refuses to return Thor, because of nothing more than spite.

This is where the affair of the Lady Sif and the Prince Loki ends.

Sif may have loved the prince, who made her smile when she wished to cry, but she does not love her new king.

Sif turns her back to Loki, and goes with the others to get Thor.

This is the end of another life.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

And then…he dies.

This too, is the end of another life.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

The time that follows Loki’s…death…is a confusing one for Sif.  She is left to mourn the lover she never acknowledged to the public, even as the heat of her anger at the whole situation grows.

He jumped. He did not fall. Thor is a good man, but a terrible liar, and so the truth is easily brought to the surface.

This angers her, yes, but it also _devastates_ her.

He jumped, and in doing so, not only died, but also left her behind.

It hurts, more than any wound she’s earned in battle, though this too, was undeniably a war.

And then, before her wounds have been had time to lance-before her pain has had time to fade into a dull ache-they find out that he still lives, and this too only hurts more, because he is no longer the troubled, good intentioned man she thinks she loved, but the villain, mad and twisted, bent on destroying a whole world.

Sif does not watch as Odin expends the darkest of Asgard’s magic to send Thor down to earth for the task of fighting his own brother-cannot watch as her oath as a warrior, her loyalty to her Prince fights against the loyalty she one had to the man who was so recently her lover.  Instead, she hides in the shadows of Loki’s favorite library, and pretends that she cannot still feel him in the darkened corners, secret smiles and tender caresses lingering just her for.

She fails.

And then, finally, they bring him back, defeated and in chains, the friend of her childhood and the secret-lover she mourned, and yet he is so little the Loki she remembers.  The man who stands before them all in the Great Hall is so angry, so _mad_ , and the sneered hatred in his eyes when he looks at her, standing just behind Thor as she so often does, has her biting down on the flesh of her mouth until she tastes the copper of her own blood, darting her eyes to the figure of her King when she finds she can no longer hold that terrible stare.

Sif loves her King, as all warriors who serve the crown do, but now, staring at this stranger who wears Loki’s face, Sif can’t help but wonder what Odin thought would happen when he brought two kings into a home with only one throne.

And yet, for all his faults, Odin is a great man and a great King, and even a good father, and so Odin, the Allfather, King of the Gods, offers his son-not of blood, but of heart-forgiveness.

Loki stares him in his one good eye, and sneeringly refuses.

Sif visits him only once, in the cold labyrinth that is Asgard’s only jail, staring silently at him, this stranger wearing her once-lover’s face and it hurts to look at the blackness in his eyes, as dark and fathomless as the black hole he jumped into.

Perhaps, she thinks silently, he never truly escaped it.  Perhaps the parts of him that were Loki- _her_ Loki-are still there, trapped in that endless blackness. It’s a thought far more preferable than the alternative at least.

That _this_ was who he was all along.

“Loyal Sif,” he taunts then, perhaps tired of her silence and his silver tongue is ever sharp, words like daggers designed to cut at her heart, “how good it was to see you again, and still always a step behind your precious prince. And what will your loyalty get you?”

And then a pause, Sif knows for little more than dramatic effect, and another cruel, biting sneer, “He’ll never love you.”

“Once, that loyalty belonged to you,” she says slowly, finding her voice as she remembers a day hundreds of mortal years ago-another life ago-when her hair had still been golden and she and he had chased Thor through a Midgardian apple orchard, pelting Thor with apples good naturedly after he had teased them for wasting a beautiful day on something so banal as reading. 

Sigyn, Thor had called her as she had pummeled him heartily for her own and Loki’s honor while Loki had watched in the shadows with a small smile upon his lips-loyal.

Wife, the mortals had called her.

Loki’s wife.

Yes, the myths get much wrong.

“Not anymore,” she finishes quietly, and then turns smoothly and leaves, and only silence follows her out.

It is the only time in the entirely of their interactions together that Sif has ever gotten the last word.

It is a hollow victory.

It’s when he escapes less than two months later-refuses responsibility for his behaviour and choses the hatred in his heart over the love of his family-that Sif finally divorces her heart from the second son of Asgard.  She thinks that there will always be a part of her that will remember with love the man he once was, but he is no longer that man and she cannot find any fondness in her for the man he is now, and it is a freeing realization.

She is still the Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, friend of the Prince Thor and the Warriors Three, sister of Heimdal, but no longer the lover of Loki.

This too is an end of a life.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

The Lady Jane fixes the Bifrost.

Thor, naturally, is the first one down the repaired bridge, wasting no time in reuniting with the mortal who has captured his heart, and the mortals whom have become his friends, shield brothers and sisters alike-and yes, she is aware of the pun.

Sif, perhaps surprisingly, is the second.

Without Thor and Loki, Asgard is not so golden to her as it once was.  She loves her home-this shall always be true, as all warriors of Asgard who bleed and die for their people do, but now there are too many ghosts lingering in the halls for her to breathe comfortably anymore.  Midgard is different, and the humans seem strange and exceedingly informal, but it is something new, and Sif finds she needs that desperately right now.

The Warriors Three, surprising no one, are third.

This, also unsurprisingly, is perhaps where a certain problem crops up.  Because although Asgard may lead the mortal world in the subjects of magic and brute strength, they drag severely behind in fields like science and technology, and as such, they are entirely unprepared to deal with certain aspects of human life.

The plasma television screen with a battle-axe through it being only one of unfortunately, many examples, though Sif will assert until her dying day that the traumatization of Tony’s robots was not her fault.  

At least, not completely.

But it cannot be said that SHIELD does not learn from its mistakes, as immediately after said events, the Son of Coul-she has been told this is not how to say his name, but it is a remnant of home she has yet to discard-comes up with a plan to help acclimatize herself and the Warriors Three to life on Earth.  It is a simple plan; a few of the…more well-adjusted Avengers-because, though Sif has no stones to throw here, not all of the Avengers are paragons of normal human interactions-volunteer to act as guides, providing one on one practical training for life on Earth, forming a partner arrangement.

And then they choose names out of a hat, because apparently this is a thing done on Mirgard.

Yes, these humans are little strange to Sif.

But the experience is overall an amusing one-Fandral is assigned to the woman warrior Maria Hill, who seems entirely imperious to his charms and Volstagg is assigned to Lady Darcy, who declares with an almost unholy amount of glee, that they are going to ‘hit’ several things called ‘all you can eat buffets’ and that she will ‘facebook it.’

Sif’s own name is picked by the Son of Coul himself-Phillip, he insists with a tiny, soft crinkle of his mouth, the gesture so understated in its kindness that Sif finds herself unable to do anything but make the same offer of him in return. 

The Man of Iron, after pulling the name of Hogun the Grim, insists that Phillip cheated.

Sif notes, with some private amusement, that Phillip offers neither denial nor conformation of this.

And so, this is how Sif finds herself spending afternoon’s and weekend with Phillip, doing everything from learning how the sundry of small machines in the kitchen work to operating the world wide web, to obtaining suitable mortal attire-and Sif will maintain, to her dying day, that the mall is warzone-to even just walking through Central Park and watching the mortals interact-the human condition in all its terrible agonies and exquisite joys.  

And as time passes, Sif begins to realize that, although she enjoys all of her time with Philip, it is perhaps the walks in the park she enjoys most, because it is there that not only can she observe strangers enjoying the lives of mortal, but she also gets to see _Philip_ as such, the man behind the Agent, and she likes everything that she sees.  He is a solider, who like her serves her his country with honor and dignity, but he is also a man, whose dry wit and gentle kindness draw her in.  He is a man who sees her not just as a woman or a warrior, but both, and respects her as both, and Sif knows that men who can do that are few and far between.

This too, is an area that Asgard lags behind Midgard in.

She does not think of Loki.

She supposes it is natural that she compares Midgard to Asgard so often-she is a visitor of this world; an alien living amongst the natives, a stranger to their ways and Asgard, her home, has always been her standard. 

What surprises her though is that she so often she finds Asgard wanting in comparison.  Because although she loves her land, and she truly does, Asgard is still a land of regimented traditions and ancient beliefs that Sif, a woman whose existence as a warrior bucked nearly all those values, never felt truly comfortable in.  In Midgard, however, Sif spars with the deadly Widow and is instructed in the shooting of human weapons from the soldier-spy Peggy Carter, and somehow, so far from home, feels like she belongs.

And then, of course, there are _other_ differences.

“You humans,” she says quietly, wistfully, walking with Phillip in the park, distantly watching as a father swings his small daughter into his arms and then kisses his wife, dramatic and sweetly, not a care for privacy or the judgement of others-a loud, unapologetic expression of love to the world that would never be voiced in the halls of the palace of Asgard, “you are somehow both familiar and entirely alien to me.”

 _We don’t do that_ , Sif doesn’t say, but she knows Phillip hears it all the same.

“I suppose,” Phillip says, after a long moment, and Sif watches as his hand moves unconsciously to rest over the spot on his chest where she knows the scars of Loki’s attack must rest, “because we don’t have as much time as you, we are more wary of wasting it.”

Perhaps, Sif thinks quietly, watching the sunlight play over the angles of his face, it is a practice that need not just apply to the mortals.

Sif threads her arm through his own on the way back to the Tower, something she has not done before, and has seen both friends and lovers do in this world that she is slowly learning to live in, and even she does not know what the intention of her gesture is.

Philip does not remove her arm.

It certainly gives her something to ponder.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

On the subject of love, Sif is self-aware enough to realize that she is perhaps…not happy alone, but she is content.  She is not looking for a relationship; she is not still too wounded by the death of her relationship with Loki, but yet nor does she especially desire a new one.

She had thought they would have time.

So the fact that she says yes when Philip-and yes, she has finally trained not to call him the Son of Coul, though she believes Thor will do it for the rest of his natural life-asks her to diner is a bit of a mystery.  He is certainly a handsome man-not so overtly as some of the other Avengers; he lacks the sculpted perfection of the Captain, the roguish angles of the Man of Iron’s face, the scruffy chic of Sir Banner or the appealing symmetry of the Hawkeye-but he is certainly not unappealing, and frankly, Sif has never cared much about aesthetics.  Character was what drew her to Loki, not his looks, and Coulson’s character-serious and yet funny, kind and yet strong, certainly appeals to her, but her general lack of interest in a relationship should have had her politely turning down his clear invitation for a diner as more than friends-and she knows that is what is was, as she has been carefully schooled in this area too, by every female member associated with the Avengers.

And yet, she somehow finds herself sitting in a very nice Midgardian restaurant, wearing a very nice Midgardian dress, sitting across from a very charming, dapper suit-wearing Phillip Coulson.  She also finds herself having a perfectly wonderful time.

A time, she realizes, even before they are offered the dessert menu, that she wouldn’t mind repeating.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to accept my invitation,” Phillip says as they walk back to the Tower from the restaurant, and although it is not a question, there is cautiousness to it still.  Sif has never told him of her past, of Loki, but Phillip is a perceptive man, and she knows he has intuited at least some of what she has not said.

It is a comfort to her that she does not have to tell him.  It warms her even further that he knows without her doing so.  That he knows _her_.

“Perhaps,” she says, testing the words on her tongue and finding only truth in them, “I simply do not wish to waste time.”

“Perhaps,” he asks, and his voice hides no secret ambitions, no agenda beyond a sincere desire for her company, “You might consider not-wasting some more time with me?”

“Yes,” she says, and means it, and then, the world as her witness, she leans in and kisses him, and he kisses her back, as the moonlight shines around them.

She takes him to her room, and glories in him and as his hands trail over her bare flesh, there are no ghosts to be found.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

And time, as it as wont to do, passes.

Sif passes it with Phillip.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Sif fights with the Avengers and the Agents of SHIELD against Loki and his Kree raiding party, but she does not actually ever see him in the battle.  She is aware that he is there-knows that he was once again stopped by the Hulk and once again taken back to Asgard to be imprisoned-but this is only academic knowledge.  She makes no use of it, does not return to Asgard to visit him again, and does not feel pain or surprise or frustration when she hears that he has once again escaped.

He is simply not part of her life.

In fact, it is not until their battle with Thanos that she sees him for the first time since that time in his cell.  Sif is fighting Thanos’s army with a squad of SHIELD soldiers, has just plunged her blade into the heart of one of the hostiles when she looks up and sees him atop a near rooftop, barely more than a shadow; a silhouette against the brightness of the sun.  And yet he sees her, she knows he does-she has always been able to feel his gaze on her, even after a thousand years.  And, she cannot lie, for a moment she thinks of going to him; he is waiting there, held, she knows, for her, and although she does not know if it would help, if she could get through to him, the urge is still there within her. 

But then, there is a shout from the other direction, not even her name but Sif recognizes the tone as Phillip’s, and Sif takes her eyes off of him to look back, sees the alien hoard threating to overtake Phillip’s unit, and Sif knows, in the brief seconds she has, that she has a choice to make.

Past or present, Loki or Phillip.

Sif chooses, and leaves her past behind.

She does not look back.

Phillip and all of the Avengers live-Thanos does not, and Loki is reported to have escaped, his whereabouts unknown, but alive.

Sif doesn’t mention seeing Loki in her report-to see the enemy in battle is hardly a rare thing, and it isn’t as if they spoke or anything-and it isn’t until that night, when she slides into the warmth of Phillip’s sheets, fitting her body into the spaces left by his and looks at the scars that Loki gave Phillip on his chest, in that first attack on the Helicarrier, that she even thinks of him again.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, mostly to his chin, thinking of the tangled degrees of separation that link her to them-Loki to her, her to Loki, Loki to Phillip and Phillip to her-as all the while her hands trace the spidery branches of the scars, marks of a wound that would have killed him without the timely intervention of Peggy Carter’s blood. 

“You didn’t give them to me,” Phillip says, simply, and then tilts her chin up with both of his hands, so he can meet her eyes, and continues, entirely earnest, “and you’re not responsible for them either.”

And then, because he knows her, no room for argument or doubt in his tone, “ _You aren’t_.”

It is, Sif realizes, with the warmth of his hands on her cheeks, the first time she truly believes it.

Sif does not regret her choice.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

The wedding of Peggy Carter and Steven Rogers is an event that Sif finds herself sucked into without any active participation whatsoever.  Sif had been unable to attend the wedding of Tony and Pepper Stark because she had been in Asgard, fulfilling her duty in training the new recruits, but this is not so for this wedding, and the whirlwind nature of it bemuses her greatly.

Sif has been witness to very few court weddings in Asgard, and spectator to the plans of none, so she has little field of comparison, but it seems to her that everything suddenly becomes a great matter of importance-flowers, gowns, food, music, venue, who is too be invited and who is not, who is to be in the wedding party and who is not-even who is to sit beside each other and who is not.

And then, there is the matter of who is attending the wedding as a couple.

Tony, unsurprisingly, is the one who brings the matter to her attention, as he can be found more often than not gently ribbing the War Machine and The Winter Solider about whether or not they are going to repeat their dates from his own wedding, and the wink-and-nudge that he gives each of them puzzles her.

“There is significance to this invitation that I am missing,” she says Phillip when he asks her if she will accompany him, neither an acceptance or a denial, but rather an invitation for him to educate her as he so often did at the beginning of her tenure here.

He rises once again to the occasion as he says levelly, his tone carefully devoid of any kind of hidden meaning, “Traditionally, a man only takes a person he’s in a serious relationship with to a friend’s wedding.”

“Ah.  I suppose,” she says, after digesting this, and the implications raised by it, with a hint of not entirely false reluctance-because although there may be many aspects of life on Midgard she enjoys, the mall is still something out of Hel’s realm, “I shall need to buy a dress.”

His smile makes it all worth it.

And truthfully, the actual event is quite something to behold; Peggy and Steve are beautiful picture, and so impossibly happy together, and there is no one that cannot feel happy with such radiance present.  Tony, naturally, makes something of a good natured fuss about their appearance together-their first true public announcement of their status, although they certainly he not been hiding it-but Pepper, alit with the glow of her pregnancy shoot Sif a conspirator’s smile before she drags him off in a less than subtle way to engage in an act of carnality.

And then, Sif discovers, there are the dances, and although she has never had much interest in dancing, Sif is a child of the royal court, and she has been to enough royal balls and feasts to know her way around a dance floor with some grace.  Phillip, unsurprisingly, is also quite good, and so Sif spends the majority of the night in Phillip’s arms, sweeping around the dance floor, and somehow, in the poetry of the moment Sif can’t help but let slip a truth that she’s been aware of for some time.

“I love you,” Sif says, plainly but truthfully, because for all that she has never been good with pretty words, these ones she needed him to hear.

“I cheated, when we picked names from that hat-I made sure I got your name,” Phillip says, and Sif’s heart warms with what he hasn’t said, and then it just _swells_ as he follows it up with, “I love you too,” simply but heart-felt and yet with no hint of surprise, likes he’s just known all along and Sif realises that he has, because he knows her, and she curls into his neck and just stays there, and basks in the joy of being surrounded by friends, being in love and being happy.

In _living_.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

It is on her first night back in Midgard after Jane’s test and the birth of Peggy and Steve’s son, riding high on her happiness for her friends-and her relief that she will never have to wear the crown of Queen-that Sif curls herself around Phillip and expects to fall into a dreamless sleep.

This is not what comes to pass.

Sif has little gift for the art of the sight. This is Frigga’s area-Sif is war, though war must have intuition.  And yet, she knows, as sure as she knows her own name, Sif dreams that night, and knows that these are not dreams but things to come.

Sif sees all, good and bad, that is to come.

She sees the lives she’s yet to live.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

She sees a lazy morning, waking up in Philip’s arms to a rainy day, and feeling so full of love for him that she can do nothing else but ask for his hand in marriage and he agrees, and so she will curl into his warmth and just be _happy_ , before celebrating their engagement in a more…traditional way.

Sees that they will marry in the human tradition, on Midgard, with friends and family as witnesses, and that Heimdal will give her hand to Phillip-after issuing the slightly threatening reminder that he sees _all_ , and so if he mistreats her, he will know and make him regret it.  Sees Phillip promise her brother that he’d die before doing such a thing, and see her brother give Phillip his blessing.

Sees that Loki will be there, in the shadows, only for her eyes, and sees him see everything-her happiness and the love that she has for another that is returned-and sees him realize what he let slip through his fingers, before he too will disappear into the shadows.

Sif does not let it bring her down.

Rather, she sees that they will honeymoon in Fiji, and then return to their lives in the Tower.  Sees that they will defend Midgard side by side; will fight and make-up and _live_ and sees that it will glorious in its normality.

Sees that they will have a son, Ullr Philipson, and he will be beloved by his mother and his father-a child of sandy golden hair who will have his father’s features and his mother’s eyes, and who will be blessed with the magic of the Aesir, and that they will only love him more for it.  Sees him grow, from a bouncy baby to a studious little boy to a man with his father’s dry wit and his mother’s bluntness, and sees him master his gifts, using them to defend Midgard and Asgard alike.

Sees that Phillip will age, his hair graying, and that one day he will sit in the Director or SHIELD’s chair, and that Sif, still young in face and body will serve him proudly, and love him only more still.

She sees that, above all else, they will live a full life together, and be _so_ happy.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Yet not all the things she sees are so bright.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

The Avengers will die.

Not all at once; the Captain and his wife and the Soldier once of snow are more than human but less than gods, and they will linger long on the earth.  But the humans-the Man of Iron and his lady, the archer and the Widow, the one eyed Fury, the man who is also a beast and his wife-they will grow old and die, as humans are wont to do.

Philip too, will die.

Philip will never eat from the apples of Iðunn, though Sif knows he would be found worthy.

She loves him because he is human.

She cannot fault him for being such, no matter how much she might want to.

Rather he will live the long, full, human life she has seen with her and then die, surrounded by his family-by blood and by heart-and Sif, their son beside her will weep and weep and weep because she had all that mortals have, but it is still not enough.

She will take refuge in Asgard, return to her home a widow with her fully grown son, and not return to Midgard for the funerals of their other friends, rather acknowledging their passing in her own way, because the alternative will simply be too hard for her to bear.  She may have entered into this knowing that this was how it all was going to end, but it is an entirely different thing to know something in the abstract, and too live something in the all too vividly real, and the difference is no less painful than a dagger to the heart.

Sif is a warrior, but she has no defence for this type of wound.

But even pain has an end, this Sif too knows as a warrior, and so finally, with time and her remaining friends and family at her side, her grief will lessen-become a vague ache rather than the dull, stabbing pain it once was-and Sif will slowly, once again be able to breathe again-to live again.

This too, Sif knows; of all the ends of her many lives, none have or ever will hurt as much as this one.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Odin too, will die.

The Allfather is a great man, and a great king, and though he can live forever, he is too wise to want to. All things that live have their time, and one day Odin will look upon his son and his daughter-and-law and see that they are ready, and know that his time has come to an end. 

And on that day, Thor will become king.

And then, after they have laid the great Allfather to rest-honored his memory and his life-Thor will seat himself on the throne that is finally his, and with his lovely Jane queen beside him and their young daughter, the Princess Erika between them, and will name Sif King’s Champion, and her son, half human but loved only more for it, will be named Court Sorcerer, an appointment that will mean that Sif will venture no more into the human world.  

Sif will accept the appointment with honor, the Warriors Three and her beloved son a solid presence of support behind her.

It will be the end of another life.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

And so, Sif will grow into her new role-will grow comfortable with her role as a trainer of young soldiers, and even slowly come to accept the miraculous thing that the little girl who once had to fight so hard to be seen worthy as a warrior is now the ideal that other little girls try to aspire to.  More than a quarter of their new recruits are female now, and it is a wonderful thing for her to see-to know that it means that the winds of change have finally swept through Asgard, and more so, on a personal level, it is a joy to see these young girls who in the past would have been denied this opportunity flourish, and serve the country they all love.

All in all, Sif will be respected, well liked and comfortable with her life.

And then, as if the universe itself as testing her, Loki will return to Asgard.

Because remember, the Avengers will have all died.

What is a villain without his heroes?

And he will not return the angry, mad and manic man he was when he left, nor the trickster of kind intention from her youth-instead he will be this new thing, beaten down and broken, the culmination of too many centuries spent alone, with nothing but his hate to keep him company.

He will be a son who has lost his father, and wants his family again-a thing almost unremarkable in its ordinariness, his pain no different than the pain of millions of sons who have lost the same.

It will be in how he must redeem himself that the situation takes a turn for the less than ordinary.

Thor will always call Loki brother.

No matter how many people he kills, no matter how lost he gets, he will always have a place as the brother of Thor, and as a brother, Thor believes Loki has nothing to forgive.

But as a King, Thor cannot let him-traitor to Asgard and all it stands for-return without atonement.

The mortals have written about such punishments; cruel and tortuous things-a slow drip of endless acid and his lips being sown shut for all to stare-but these are the fancy of humans, colored by their beliefs of what Odin was like.

Thor is an entirely different King.

Thor has part of his magic bound, and then appoints him to serve as an apprentice to her and Philip’s son, to teach magic to the children of Asgard, sons and daughters of the people he once proclaimed to hate.

Sif said nothing about him being a less devious King.

And yet Loki, who once sneered whole-heartedly at every single overture of kinship from his brother-who once raged against an entire world rather than listen to pleas of his brother-accepts the deal.   

And Sif, who has spent centuries as his enemy, who still, after all these years remembers the hatred in his eyes, watches him like a hawk.  She trusted him once-trusted him to the level that she trusted Phillip and still trusts Ullr and Thor-the level of trust she reserves for _family_ -and he betrayed that trust so badly, so _completely_ that only a fool would not be wary of his intentions, and Sif has been called many things, but never that. 

And yet, for all her suspicions, for all her mistrust and critical eyes, nothing comes of it.  Loki is not quite the man she once remembered him as, the good-hearted trickster; he is, in comparison to that man almost meek, and so in comparison to the mad man, the manic would-be world destroyer that he had become, the difference is unbelievably staggering.  And still, despite that he tries nothing untoward; all of his actions truly suggest that he wants to pay his penance and despite that even a year after his sudden and unexpected reappearance in Asgard nothing has occurred to prove otherwise, Sif is still unwilling to let herself even consider the possibility of trust.

And then, one day, she overhears her son and Loki after one of their classes, and it changes everything. She’s taken to shadowing some of their classes, and not just for the benefit of keeping her eye on Loki, but because she enjoys watching her son in his element, watching the fruit of her and Phillip’s labor thrive in an area where once he might have been cast as an outsider.  And in doing so, she can’t help but also see _Loki_ teach these children, truly care about these little people who look at him with such respect and _admiration_ in their eyes when he himself was treated with teasing and distain in practicing such arts, and she cannot lie, it warms her heart a little.

Yes, change has finally come to Asgard.

And then, one lesson, no different from the others, Loki says, “Your father was a better man than I,” largely out of the blue to Ullr, and although Sif jolts, out of sight, Ullr does not falter, not even a second as he responds, bluntly, “Yes he was.”

And then, perhaps partially to soften some of the blow, but Sif can detect no deception in her son’s voice, “But you’re not half-bad.”

“Once,” Loki says, and there is true remorse in his voice when he speaks, “I was more than _‘half’_ bad.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Ullr says wryly, no doubt remembering one of the few fights he’d had with Loki when he was fighting alongside the Avengers.  “But no matter how long you live, life’s still to fucking short to live in the past,” Ullr says, in his blunt way, laced with the Midgardian slang of his youth, “You did your crime and you’re doing your time.  It’s good enough for me.”

Loki, she imagines, looks as shocked as she feels, though perhaps for different reasons.

Sif’s is because she finds that she can’t help but see the logic in it.

Needless to say, it certainly gives her something to think about.

“Do you trust him?” Sif asks her son in greeting after Loki has left the magical training room and Ullr smiles at her wryly, the gesture so much his father that Sif’s heart clenches with love before he replies simply, “I trust that he’s trying.  I trust that he wants to be better.  What about you-what do you think?”

“I trust you.  I trust your instincts,” Sif says finally, and means it-her son has excellent judgement skills when it comes to people, and if he’s willing to take a chance on Loki, than perhaps it would behove her to do the same.  

And then, because this is her son, and at times like this, when her heart is so full of motherly pride she cannot hold it in, she cups his cheek gently and says quietly, “Your father would be so proud of you.”

He draws her into his arms, and she buries her head into the curve of her grown son’s neck, and they take a moment to honor the memory of a good man long dead, but never gone.

It’s after Sif has departed from her son that she finally goes to find Loki.  It is the first time since he has come back that she has actively sought him out-they have seen each other certainly-his position of close proximately to her son and as her King’s brother necessitates that, but they have certainly not spent the kind of time they did together before his fall from grace. Though Sif comes to realize that something’s never change as eventually, she finds him in the library that they once spent so many hours together in and the sight of him, his long frame so familiar on the window seat arrests her in place for a moment.

He looks up at her entrance, but makes no other acknowledgment of her presence other than to move over a half-width, leaving her a place to sit.  She takes it, and the dimensions of the seat force them into close quarters, close enough that her thigh rests against his, and the warmth is a long forgotten familiar comfort.

“I made so many mistakes,” he says, without prompting, looking down at his own hands, clenched with stress on his own knees, his silver tongue so tarnished with his shame that his worlds lack the polish that they once had, and Sif only keep them ever closer to her heart because of it.

“Yes, you did,” Sif says simply, for to argue anything else would be a waste of breath, and Sif has never had a gift for lies, but she does not say it unkindly-it is a truth, no more, no less.

He flinches at that but nods-finally accepting responsibility for his actions, so long overdue but still welcome, before he finally turns to meet her gaze and asks, without the artfulness he once possessed, “Do you think you will ever be able to forgive me for what I have done?”

Sif takes a moment to truly think about, to give the question the thought that it deserves, because this is a question that matters to him, and more so, to her.  And so, although she knows the waiting does nothing for his nerves, when she finally answers him with a simple, “Yes,” she can say it is the honest truth, and feel good in meaning it.

“Loyal Sif,” Loki says, and instead of the taunting cruelness he once said it to her, now it is soft, and more than a little wistful, and he looks at her like she’s offered him a precious gift that he could not ever hope to deserve, and at that Sif…

Sif comes to a decision.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Humans, Sif has found, have an obsession with tales of the end of times.  The Christian Bible, the Muslim Koran, the Jewish Torah all speak of an Armageddon of sorts, and humans seem to thrill even as they horror at the idea of it; the death of an entire world.

And yet, even the Aesir are not above such a thing; her people have Ragnarök, dramatized by mortals but of Aesir creation, the belief that all life in the nine realms will end in water and death.

The end brought on by Loki.

And for a while she believed that he could be capable of such a thing, but now she understands; now, she knows better.  Death, she knows, is not the only way to end a civilization-change too does this, and she thinks that this, perhaps, is the truth of Ragnarök.

Loki, through his impact on his brother, has brought change to Asgard-girls are warriors and children clamour to practice magic-a new world; Ragnarök, and yet, not a life lost.

It is a thought worth considering; that all things, even those written in the stars, are perhaps not how they seem; that War is capable of mothers love, and Lies of truth. 

She thinks it’s a theory with merit.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

Time, mortals say-it heals all wounds. 

She has had enough time.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

“Sigyn,” she offers him, thinking of all the tales the humans told of them under that name, and as she takes his hand, and the sunlight from the picture window gleams off his pale skin, highlighting the sharp movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows roughly, she knows that he is thinking of them too, and what her offer truly means for them.

Because she is still Sif, but not the Sif that she was in her youth, and neither is he the man she once knew.  Instead they are both different people; now she is War, mother, widow, and yet also loyal Sigyn, who together could be the _love_ of Loki, and he is Loki, Odin’s son and yet Jötunn, once-traitor and yet beloved brother, and still learning who he is, and perhaps this shall make all the difference.

But only perhaps-for all that the mortals got wrong in once mistakenly calling them gods, they were never so foolish to assume that they were faultless, and no matter how many lives Sif had lived, there has never been one with any kind of guarantee, and they still have far to go. 

Still, she thinks, as she tilts her mouth up to his, and tastes his lips again after centuries without him; perhaps the humans were not so wrong after all.

This is the beginning of a new life.

One they’ll figure out together.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

_“Live,” Phillip had told her on his deathbed, “promise me you’ll live and be happy and love after I’m gone.”_

And so she will.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

And then…

Then she wakes.

Sif never remembers her dreams.

This one is no different.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

It is the rain she hears first when she awakens, the rhythmic sound of it hitting the windows of the Tower a soothing drum beat in the back of her mind.  For a moment, her mind is foggy with sleep, and she almost forgets where she is, still lost in the quickly fading web of dreams, but Phillip’s sleepy slurred exclamation, “Wha…Sif?” brings her back to reality quickly enough.

“I was dreaming,” Sif says faintly, trying desperately to remember what, but only the faintest whips remain, and yet this she thinks she remembers, “there was a child.”

Other men might scare at such a subject, but Phillip, because he is the man whose job it is to not flinch when aliens fall from the sky only says, a gentle humor in his voice, “A suitably amazing child I assume, as any child of ours would have to be.”

“Yes,” she says faintly, but the details are gone, lost to the realm of dreams.  And yet, there is something about this morning that rings familiar; the rain, the warmth of Phillip at her back, and she finds herself turning into Philip’s grasp and asking, before she can question it, “Marry me.” 

Phillip’s famous calm finally falters at that, as he turns shocked eyes towards her own, and stutters out, “We don’t have to…,” though Sif is quick to note that it is not a rejection of her offer, but rather a sense of surprise at his-not unfounded, given that Sif has fought to keep herself out of the chains of marriage for centuries-belief that she was uninterested in the institution.  But since Sif finds that, surprisingly, that couldn’t be farther from the truth, she wastes no time in assuring him of that, telling him, her heart in her voice, “I want to spend this life with you.”

“Well,” he says slowly, the bright smile of the truly happy spreading across his face, “than who am I, to decline such an offer?”

Sif’s answering smile meets his, and fuses their lips together, and then she drags him down with her, to celebrate in the most appropriate way.

And yes, someday, buried deep in her subconscious, Sif knows that one day it will be sunny again, and Sif will once again live with the princes of Asgard in peace and happiness.

Someday, but not now. 

Because now, it rains, and Sif is entirely happy to crawl back under the covers, curl into Phillip’s warmth, and just _live_ , here, in this moment, with her hands and her mouth on the man that she loves.

The future will always be waiting, just around the corner but Sif-Sif can wait.

She has time.

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

FIN

AVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVAVA

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So yeah…I have no idea what happened to this fic. I kind of thought that this series had died and this story was going to languish in unfinished story purgatory forever, but the Iron Man 3 trailer got me inspired again, and so I cracked down and finally got this finished. And yes, just as a point of clarity, I know that Sigyn and Sif are different people in the myths and the comics but the movies never mention her, and since Sigyn was the Norse goddess of fidelity and loyalty I liked the idea of the loyalty tie in, and since this is my fic it just happened. Not exactly like I’m clinging to canon in this series anyways:) But yeah, this somehow went from being my Sif-and-Loki-and-Coulson-feels story and became my huge, weird almost series epilogue (but not really, because the still possible Darcy/Bucky fic-I’m trying to crack down on my unfinished fic list, so that one is at the top, baring PoI inspiration-will happen chronologically after this one…sort-of). 
> 
> Also, motherfucker this thing got long! And it’s not even a full redemption arc for Loki-I wanted to show that it was a real beginning for him and Sif, and that he still has a long way to go to finally find himself and who he wants to be, which is frankly why I wrote this as Sif’s story (despite the fact that she has perhaps ten lines in the franchise so far) rather than just Loki’s. That and, I must admit that, although I love Loki for his sheer dramatic presence as a character, I find it a little hard to empathize with him too much because his emotional damage is basically that he was adopted by a loving family, and that he was an outsider because of his magic and suffering from younger-sibling disorder. And I get that would cause some legitimate pain, but really, world destroying pain? I kind of think that was amped up Teseract-space-madness style, and that eventually, given enough time alone he might detox and actually realize the gravity of the things he’s done and seek forgiveness, which is why the final act of this fic happens the way it does.
> 
> And, finally, I must apologize if the tense shifts bothered anyone, and so for clarity’s sake; everything that happens after Steve and Peggy’s wedding is the dream Sif has of the future, and is (mostly) in future tense-everything thing else is the present, and (hopefully) in present tense. Whew! Alright, I’m finally done with this note! So to conclude, thank you to everyone who’s been a fan of this series-and to my Bucky/Darcy fans, fear not, it will happen-and as always, I hope you enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


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